Just in the Right Place...

You sit in the deserted nightclub, waiting for John to come back down from his office. "Just a couple of minutes," he said, "Gotta drop by work to pick up some papers or the club won't open on Friday. We'll still make it to the game early enough to watch batting practice. Calm down, man!"

You stand up, pacing around the floor, looking at the VIP tables surrounded by curtains that line the dance area. With the lights on the dance floor going, and the sheer curtains closed, the VIPs could be doing anything in there and still watch the hot girls gyrating to the DJ. Shit, you think, and John'll probably one of 'em....he now owns the newest hot nightclub in town; he'll have the pussy lined up the stairs to his office. And with THAT thought, your mind wanders back to the place it's been for a month....the girlfriend that left you out of the blue, after living together for six months.

You collapse back into the chair and begin to wallow in pity again, when the front door swings open, bathing the club in bright daylight. A perfect hourglass silhouette forms in the rectangle of light, and as the door slowly closes, your eyes adjust and focus on the hottest woman you have ever seen. As her hips sway gracefully back and forth, her stiletto heels tap out a rhythmic beat across the floor: a sexual metronome come to life. Even wearing a topcoat, the tautness of her body is palpable through her clothing, and as your eyes finally reach the shapely calves below the coat's hem, you realize she's standing less than three feet from you. You look up, and into the deepest brown eyes--and you almost forget to breathe.

"Hi! I'm Tawnee! That's with two ee's" she squeaks in a little girls voice, thrusting her hand at you. You don't remember putting yours out, but her hand is suddenly warm in yours, pumping up and down. "You're Sam, right?" she asks, releasing your hand.

Before you can correct her, she glances around the empty club, and turns back to you with an almost imperceptible pout on her moist lips. "There's no one else here? Ohhhhhhh, I'm not too late to audition, am I?"

"A-Audition?" you stammer, more confused.

"Yeah," she says, bending to dig in the giant bag hanging from her shoulder. She produces a folded newspaper and reads aloud. "Dancers Wanted -- experienced only, pole work a plus. Ask for Sam."

She thrusts the ad your way, "That's you? Sam, right?"

Your eyes flick toward the circled ad and you realize that she should be at the Strip Club down the block. How did she manage to miss the giant flashing sign that reads "Fat Sam's Titty City"?, you think to yourself.

As you start to speak, she rummages in her bag again. "Anyway , I've got a glossy and a DVD, with some of my stuff on it," she piles the DVD box and the glossy photo on top of the newspaper in your hand. The picture shows her on stage topless, bent over, thrusting her shapely bare ass at the camera, her pussy straining against the flimsiest of thongs—and you realize everything you thought about her when she walked in didn't even come close.

"And I brought my own music," she says pulling a small boombox out of the purse. She swivels her head, craning her neck, looking for something. "Where's the...oh, there it is!" she says, her eyes fixing on something over your shoulder. She brushes past you.

You turn and see her setting her boombox on the end of the bar. She walks over to a pole mounted from floor to ceiling in the corner of the room. Her hand easily runs up and down the length of the pole, slowly -- lazily -- sexually. You bring the newspaper and other things in your hand down to cover the obvious bulge growing in your pants.

"So how come it's in the corner? Why aintcha got one up one stage?"

You realize that for the first time she actually expects you to say something, but the only thought running through your mind is: DON'T......FUCK......THIS......UP!!!!"

"Um, well, that's the one for private dances. The main one......well......we had to have it refinished again....um, girls were getting splinters."???! YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!!

"Damn, I hate it when that happens! Workman's comp doctors look at ya real funny like. OK, pull up a chair. I can still audition, right?"

Again your mind blacks out, but you find yourself sitting in a chair facing the slim pole. Tawnee walks over to the bar and removes her coat, revealing a skimpy costume underneath. Lacy fabric flows from her arms and encircles her trim hips and flutters suggestively as she struts to the pole. She takes her position at the pole, and waits for the music to start.

She begins to gyrate, slowly, reaching behind her and unfastening her bra with one hand, holding it in place with the other. A couple more gyrations brings her closer to you, where she bends backwards, placing one hand on the floor and places her brassiere in your lap. She stands back up, gyrating more frantically now, then slower, hooking her thumbs in the waist of her shorts and pulling them slowly down to reveal a silky black g-string, covering her pussy so closely, it leaves little to the imagination.

You become aware that you're breathing heavier, out of your mouth; nothing you do can control the raging erection you have trapped in your pants. She spins again, and catches your eyes with her gaze—locked on you, she stalks toward you breasts bouncing and swaying with each undulation. She dances around the chair, nipples flicking past your face, rubbing the back of your head, hips pressed against your arms.

With one final spin, she affixes you again, trapping your soul in her eyes; she reaches down to the g-string with one slender finger and pulls on it, tearing it off and flinging it towards the bar. Now totally nude, she straddles your lap and begins to swivel, the lips of her pussy surrounding your engorged member through the fabric of your pants. As she presses your face between her breasts, you feel yourself explode inside your shorts and black out yet again.

She is standing by the bar, dressed, packing up her giant bag when you come around. She turns to you, glancing down at the moist spot on the front of your pants. She pulls a tissue from the bag.

"Sorry about that—I get all hot and bothered when I let go like that. Looks like I got a little pussy juice on ya." She smiles, wiping the spot. "Well, I gotta run. Here's my card—my cellie's on the back. Call me when ya want me to start!"

As quickly as she exploded into the room, she waves, turns and is gone...

----------

John looks down at you from his office window smiling and dials his cell.

"Hello?"

"Tawnee? That's the best name you could come up with?" he laughs.

"Hey—the virgins always feel comfortable with a..." she slips her voice back into Tawnee, "...airheaded sex kitten." In her regular voice, "Puts them at ease."

"Well you were worth it. A deal's a deal—you and your girls get three tables in VIP opening night. And all your champagne's on me."

"Thanks, lover. Just one more thing—"

"What's that?"

"Make sure he calls me to let me know I didn't get the job;" she purrs. "I have a feeling that he'll have to come over to console Tawnee."